


Some Like It Hot

by firesign10



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bakery and Coffee Shop, Coffee Shops, M/M, Twisted Tropes Round One: Dark Roast
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-15
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2020-03-05 16:41:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18832561
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firesign10/pseuds/firesign10
Summary: Sam's slaving away in a hipster coffee shop in California when Dean comes looking for him.





	Some Like It Hot

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [twisted_tropes](twisted_tropes.livejournal.com) round, Dark Roast. From [megalosaurus](megalosaurus.livejournal.com)'s prompt: Sam gets a job at the on-campus coffee shop while he's at college but it's not a fluffy haven of normalcy so much as a stressful, shitty job where the customers are grumpy and he spends half the time getting the orders wrong because he's been up until all hours trying to study.

A fast, reliable vehicle.

A well-stocked, well-maintained arsenal.

Access to arcane lore.

Coffee.

These were the few but inarguable requirements of a hunter's life. Coffee could almost be seen as the most important one of all; hunts were fueled by hot thermoses of the stuff savored while waiting in the wee, dark hours, or consumed in thick china mugs while plans were laid. Coffee was life, coffee was comfort, and no hunter did without it.

Having been raised as a hunter, Sam was no stranger to coffee shops. In fact, he felt pretty much at home in them, more than the sleazy motel rooms and empty house squats that comprised the rest of his downtime locales. He estimated he'd spent approximately two-thirds of his life in one. Chains like Starbucks, Dunkin, Tim Horton, full of shiny machinery and a thousand kinds of donuts; mom-and-pops that boasted a more homey feel, the donuts hand-made and riding the conveyor belt through hot, reeking oil that hadn't been changed in a year; hipster shops with pretentious names, eclectic coffee varieties, and unusual donut configurations, where Sam could never really find something solid to eat. Research and hunting were often late-night activities, requiring frequent refueling at diners and coffee-shops, so Sam considered himself inured to whatever a shop threw at him.

And he meant throwing in a literal sense. Since Sam had started working at Jiving Joe's Coffee & O's in Stanford (serving Stanford University and vicinity 24 hours a day since 1998), Paolo, frequently Sam's co-worker on third shift, thought nothing of lobbing any requested pastry item at Sam for him to bag and ring up. Luckily for the customers, Sam had reflexes like a cat. Nabbing the flying goodie in mid-arc, Sam popped it into a bag, placing it with the hot beverage of choice (thank God Paolo didn't throw liquids) and announcing the total amount of sale.

After his first several months of working there, Sam started to think he'd never really enjoy the smell of coffee again, although that didn't keep him from drinking it. With the pace he kept, coffee was the main thing that kept him awake and moving during his day. It didn't, however, actually help his mental acumen. Constant fatigue meant he screwed up half of his orders, whether forgetting an element (“I said extra cinnamon!”), mixing two beverages up (“The hazelnut is _my_ order, _he's_ the Americano!”), or mishandling the milk steamer. Sam apologized while he remade the orders, stolidly ignoring the barbs from irritated customers, the best one always being, “How hard is it to make a goddamn cup of coffee? I could come over there and do it!”

 _You just try doing it, buddy, with a billion fussy-ass customers and next-to-no sleep,_ Sam thought grimly, pouring, measuring, steaming. _Let's see how long you last, you entitled piece of shit._

“There you go, my apologies again. Can I get you anything else?” he asked with a fake smile pasted over gritted teeth.

Again, and again, and again.

Sitting on a milk crate outside the back door on break, Sam surveyed the dirty alley and contemplated his existence. Usually there was a lull around 2:30 or 3:00 a.m., when the clubs had emptied but the early morning rush hadn't started. Happily, he clocked out at 4:00 a.m. anyway, heading back to his tiny dorm room for two or three hours sleep before waking to address homework and classes. Most of the time, he brought an extra-large cup home with him, nuking it in the little microwave in his room when he got up at 6:30.

Sam sighed, tilting his head back against the brick wall and closing his eyes for a second. He didn't dare close them for any longer than that—he would fall asleep. He was perpetually exhausted. Classes and schoolwork filled his daytime hours. A break for some studying, and then it was time to hit Joe's. His third shift hours here provided money for things like food and clothing, school fees, and the bike he'd finally been able to purchase, which made this job much more feasible once he didn't have to take the bus.

“Sam!” an annoyed voice hollered from inside the shop. Sam groaned and opened his eyes, standing and stretching his sore back before heading inside to finish his shift.

The lull was in full effect, so Sam began doing the nightly cleaning. He'd never realized how much cleaning there was at a place like this. Stopping at places like this when he'd been a kid, he'd taken it for granted. Now, he understood all too well what went in to creating that cleanliness. Of course, the bathrooms and floors had to be mopped, the fixtures wiped down. All the tables and seating had to be wiped with disinfectant, and the windows sprayed and squeegeed to get rid of smudgy fingerprints.

Then it was on to the coffee appliances themselves. The grinders, the steamers, the urns, the spigots—everything cleaned to spotless, gleaming perfection. Granules of coffee, sugar, and creamer swept off the counter into the trash, all the coffee supplies refilled. Replacing and restocking coffee beans of every type; milk and cream in the cooler; sugar, cinnamon, and vanilla in their various spots; everything pristine and in its place.

Sam's back was even more sore by the time he made it through all the cleaning and re-stocking. He still had to go out and address the fixing station, where stirrers, straws, cup insulators, lids, napkins, and various sweetening agents needed to be re-filled. The milk thermoses had to be washed, the honey and agave bottles de-stickified, and the trash emptied with a clean bag in place.

Every so often when Sam sat out in back and caught a breath of fresh air, he'd close his eyes and think about how he used to loved stopping at places like this as a kid. Clean and bright and warm, full of food and delicious hot beverages during cold Midwestern or Northern nights, those coffee shops had been oases to cold, hungry children and sullen teen-age boys. Curling up in a booth, listening as John, alone or with other hunters, planned a hunt while Sam and Dean shared sweet pastries and hot chocolate.

Now, this current coffee shop was merely another aspect of Sam's miserable life, just another grueling experience. He'd thought Stanford would be...a different kind of oasis. A place where he wasn't a hunter, where he had a real life, an “apple pie” life. Where research was for papers, not monsters, and everyone enjoyed the chance to learn for learning's sake. Where he didn't have to throw out clothes soaked with blood or monster guts.

And it turned out to be an illusion. Sam found himself working harder than he ever had before, as dirty as he'd ever gotten, and lonelier than he'd ever been before.

His eyes prickled behind their lids. San took a deep breath, exhaling through gritted teeth as he brought himself under control. He didn't need Boston creams plastered all over him, didn't need Paolo to think he was some kind of wuss.

Groaning as he stood, Sam stretched, his back complaining about all the bending and reaching and scrubbing. A final sweep of everything, and he could clock out in an hour.

Sam picked up a piece of chalk and began writing the new day's specials and flavors on the big chalkboard, referring to the list his manager had left. He was intent on spelling 'macchiato' and 'cappuccino' correctly when a husky voice startled him. 

“Can I get a cup of coffee?”

Sam erased the little squiggle he'd inadvertently added before turning around, ready to spout the litany of flavors and sizes available.

Dean stood on the other side of the counter. He wore a navy Carhartt jacket, some rock T-shirt, reasonably clean jeans, and his green eyes blinked lazily at Sam. With a wide, lazy smile, Dean repeated, “Coffee?”

“Uh, sure. We have hazelnut, French vanilla, dark roast, Sumatran--” Sam couldn't stop staring. Dean. Right here, for the first time since Sam had run off to Stanford, in Jiving Joe's Coffee and O's, the only 24 hour coffee shop serving Stanford University and area since 1998. Sam didn't know what to think, except to blink at the figure before him.

Dean.

Stopping Sam's recitation with a hand, Dean said, “Black. Large.”

“Okay.” Feeling like he'd fallen asleep and was dreaming, Sam pulled a large black coffee into a paper cup, snapping the plastic lid on and pushing it toward Dean.

Dean pulled some money out, but Sam shook his head. “No, man, it's on the house.”

“Well, thank you kindly, Mr. Barista.” Dean winked at him. “So...what time do you get off?”

 _Any time you wanna do me,_ Sam thought feverishly. His libido, dormant for long months under the burden of work, school, and exhaustion, suddenly surged in a swell of heat at his core.

Dean snickered. “That could be arranged.”

Sam heard Paolo laughing like a loon, and realized he'd spoken the words out loud. Already aware of his co-worker's propensity to view life as some surreal film study, Sam smacked his forehead with one hand, wishing he could teleport simply away.

Struggling to regain a hint of composure, Sam replied, “Uh, I'm supposed to work until 4.”

Dean looked around, sipping on his coffee. “Well, I can't complain about the joe, this is good stuff. But this place, Sammy...” He shook his head. “What are you doing in a fancy-pants place like this? And in the middle of the night? When are you sleeping? How are you managing your classes?”

Sam looked at the floor. “I, uh, I sleep for a couple of hours after work, before my first class.”

Dean put his coffee down on the counter, leaning over and looking intently at Sam. “Dude, this is ridiculous. You look like shit. This job is shit.” He nodded at Paolo. “I suspect your co-worker is shit.”

“Hey!” yelled Paolo, unable to keep from laughing. “I am fuckin' awesome!”

Folding his arms in front of his chest, Sam huffed angrily, “I need the money, Dean!”

“Not like this, you don't.” Dean stretched a hand out. “Come with me, Sam. We'll figure out how to get you money, but it won't be working a shift at fucking 3 a.m. with you not getting any sleep.” He dropped his voice. “Bet you can't remember the last time you got laid either.”

“I offered!” Paolo retorted. “Don' look at me if your boy's not satisfied!”

Sam looked longingly at Dean, standing there and looking every bit as strong and beautiful as Sam remembered. 

A cinnamon sugar apple-filled donut smacked Sam in the cheek, scattering sugar down his shirt and depositing jammy apple bits across his face.

That. Was. It.

“Okay, Dean. It's a deal.” Hopping over the counter, Sam grabbed a handful of napkins off the pristine fixing station and wiped his face as Dean strode out of the shop.

“You're gonna be docked for leaving early!” shouted Paolo.

Sam stopped in the doorway, turned back to Paolo, and said, “I'm off to get fucked out of my mind, so...” He flipped Paolo off and ran off after Dean, letting his apron fly off on the breeze.


End file.
